La Princesse Anne
by WeirdChocolateLover
Summary: Prince Henry, Duke of York is a man avowed to be the handsomest prince in Christendom. Anne of France is the unfortunate princess contrived to be his wife.


**February 1520**

"Have you ever thought of marriage?"

Anne, previously amusing herself with a book, is jarred by the question. She blinks owlishly, unsure, but feels compelled enough to discontinue her activity. Claude rarely dives into such contentious topics, other than to scold her for her unorthodox opinions and impart words from the Scripture to refine such views.

She waits, allowing her sister to muster the courage to look at her.

It is a few moments before Claude turns to her, lips pursed and eyes pleading for something more than just an answer to the question— _but pleading for what exactly, she cannot conjecture … yet._

She decides to answer in a tone that is facetious but with the words so obviously tinged with bitter truth.

"Hardly. What is there to think about? I cannot choose my husband—not his face, not his manner, not his intellect. Father's advisers—" she stops, and for a moment feels _nauseous_ before swallowing and continuing, " _Francois' advisers_ rather think themselves masters of such art. I should only misspend what is left of my freedom fretting over a faceless man who is to be Lord of my body and fortune."

And pointedly, she resumes reading.

The remark is biting cold and not even the scorching heat from the fireplace that has permeated the air of the Queen's apartments can disguise it. Some of the queen's ladies flinch but the queen firmly pretends to be oblivious to her passionate dislike for the topic and plods on.

"Surely, you've grown out of this ridiculous fancies? You're a woman now and a princess of France. It is a duty you should be happy to undertake."

 _Ah … I see where this is going._

The dread abruptly drops into her stomach at the realization.

Anne closes her book with a loud smack, giving up all pretenses of preoccupation and stares at her sister—dark torrential eyes unflinching.

Her throat is dry when she speaks. "I have been quite simpleminded not to notice it earlier."

Claude opts to remain silent, allowing her to grasp the sudden turn of her situation.

Anne cannot say that she has not foreseen this. In fact, it is foolish of her to be surprised. However, she cannot stop the way her chest inflates in trepidation.

As the youngest daughter, her betrothal has been of lesser importance before, due to her age and the order of her birth. It is Claude whom her mother and father have been anxious to wed—especially with both of them having different suitors in mind. Their mother had been adamant not to have Brittany tied with the French crown while their father worked tirelessly for the opposite.

Anne often finds it a source of great amusement, for she has not seen a more disharmonious couple.

In the end, their father won because he had outlived their mother for almost a year. His last months had also been a flurry of securing a male heir to which task he still had failed.

Honestly, Anne is not sure if he would've have taken victory if he had known the price.

But now … _the time has finally come_. Her duties are now catching up to her. In reality, she has been prime for matrimony in years, in fact, she should be grateful for what little reprieve she had received. And despite the unconventional opinions she has nursed, she is not an imbecile to think that she could get out of this.

She stands, asserting herself over his sister's authority. Anne de Valois prides herself in her astute judgment, and this battle is one she knows she cannot win. "May I know who he is, _Majesté_?"

There is a glint of pride in her sister's eyes-which bespeaks of her sister's satisfaction in the way she has reacted-that she is oblivious to, for she finds herself intensely focused on keeping herself together.

The queen's next words are like the peal of large bells.

"Prince Henry, the Duke of York."

Claude manages to summon a small smile, an indication that she intends to enliven the mood. "Even if my husband's advisers have thrust you into a betrothal of undesirable foundations, sister, they clearly took great pains to ensure that the man is pleasant enough... _to look at, at the very least_. After all, it is not every day you are wed to a man dubbed to be the handsomest in Christendom."

It is still ringing in her ears hours later.


End file.
